Peters eyes fastened on the stamp. It was stained with red ink at its rubber base, and the knob was of polished wood. He tried to read the back-to-front words of the stamp, but could only make out the name of the firm.
It was almost certain to be what he wanted.
His fingers itched to snatch it up and stuff it into his pocket, but he was certain to be seen. Even if he did it while the backs of the others were turned, the stamp might be missed immediately afterward. There had to be a better way.
When Meunier spoke Peter gave a guilty start. You may leave this here, the man said. His nod was dismissive.
Peter wheeled the dolly out through the door, and the two of them returned to their packing room.
He spent two more days trying to figure out a way to get at the stamp on Meuniers desk. Then a better idea was handed to him on a plate.
The old man was sitting at his desk, filling out one of the forms, while Peter sipped a cup of coffee. The old man looked up from his work to say: Do you know where the stationery supplies are?
Peter thought fast. Yes, he lied.
The old man handed him a small key. Fetch me some more forms-I have almost run out.
Peter took the key and went. In the corridor he asked a passing messenger boy where the supply room was. The boy directed him to the floor below.
He found it in an office which seemed to be a typing pool. He had not been there before. One of the typists showed him a walk-in cupboard in a corner. Peter opened the door, switched on the light, and went in.
He found a ream of the forms he wanted straightaway. His eye roamed the shelves and lit on a stack of headed notepaper. He broke a packet and took out thirty or forty sheets.
He could not see any rubber stamps.
There was a green steel cabinet in the far end of the little room. Peter tried the door and found it locked. He opened a box of paper clips, took one, and bent it. Inserting it in the keyhole, he twisted it this way and that. He began to perspire. In a moment the typists would wonder what was taking him so long.
With a click that sounded like a thunderclap the door opened. The first thing Peter saw was an opened cardboard box containing six rubber stamps. He turned one over and read the impression underneath.
He translated: Certified at Meunier, Paris.
He suppressed his elation. How could he get the thing out of the building?
The stamp and the headed paper would make a suspiciously large package to take past the security men at the door on the way home. And he would have to conceal it from the old man for the rest of the day.
He had a brainwave. He took a penknife from his pocket and slid its blade under the rubber bottom of the stamp, working the knife from side to side to dislodge the rubber from the wood to which it was glued. His hands, slippery with sweat, could hardly grip the polished wood.
Can you find what you want? a girls voice came from behind his back.
He froze. Thank you, I have them now, he said. He did not look around. Footsteps retreated.
The rubber came away from the bottom of the stamp. Peter found a large envelope on a shelf. He put the notepaper and the thin slice of rubber into the envelope and sealed it. He took a pen from another box and wrote Mitchs name and address on the envelope. Then he closed the steel cupboard door, picked up his ream of forms, and went out.
At the last minute he remembered the bent paper clip. He went back into the store, found it on the floor, and put it in his pocket.
He smiled at the typists as he left the office. Instead of going back to the old man, he wandered around the corridors until he met another messenger boy.
Could you tell me where I take this to be posted? he asked. Its air mail.
Ill take it for you, the messenger said helpfully. He looked at the envelope. It should have air mail written on it, he said.
Oh dear.
Dont worry-Ill see to it," the boy said.
Thank you. Peter went back to the packing department.
The old man said: You took a long time.
I lost my way, Peter explained.
Three days later, in the evening at his cheap lodging house, Peter got a phone call from London.
It came, said Mitchs voice.
Thank Christ for that, Peter replied. Ill be home tomorrow.
Mad Mitch was sitting on the floor of the studio when Peter arrived, his fuzzy ginger hair laid back against the wall. Three of Peters canvases were stood in line on the opposite wall. Mitch was studying them, with a frown on his brow and a can of Long Life in his hand.
Peter dumped his holdall on the floor and went over to stand next to Mitch.
You know, if anyone deserves to make a living out of paint, you do, said Mitch.
Thanks. Wheres Anne?
Shopping. Mitch heaved himself to his feet and crossed to a paint-smeared table. He picked up an envelope which Peter recognized. Clever idea, ripping the rubber off the stamp, he said. But why did you have to post it?
No other way to get the stuff out of the building safely.
You mean the firm posted it?
Peter nodded.
Jesus. I hope no one happened to notice the name on the envelope. Did you leave any other giveaway clues?
Yes. Peter took the can from Mitch and drank a long draft of the beer. He wiped his mouth on his forearm and handed the can back. I had to give Charles Lampeths name as a reference.
Did they check it?
I think so. Anyway, they insisted on a referee they knew and could telephone.
Mitch sat on the edge of the table and scratched his stomach. You realize youve left a trail like the bloody M1.
Its not that bad. It means they probably could trace us, given time. Even then they couldnt prove anything. But what matters is they cant catch up with us before were finished. After all, we only want a few more days.
If everything goes to plan.
Peter turned away and sat on a low stool. How did your end go?
Great. Mitch brightened up suddenly. I swung it with Arnaz-hes going to finance us.
Whats in it for him? said Peter, curious.
A laugh. Hes got a great sense of humor.
Tell me about him.
Mitch swallowed the rest of the beer and threw the can accurately into a bin. Hes somewhere in his thirties, half-Irish and half-Mexican, brought up in the USA. Started selling original paintings out of the back of a truck in the Midwest when he was about nineteen. Made money hand over fist, opened a gallery, taught himself to appreciate art. Came over to Europe to buy, liked it and stayed.
Hes sold his galleries now. Hes just a kind of intercontinental art entrepreneur-buys and sells, makes a pile, and laughs at the mugs all the way to the bank. A moderately unscrupulous bloke, but he feels the same about the art scene as we do.
How much money has he put up?
A thousand quid. But we can have more if we need it.
Peter whistled. Nice guy. What else have you pulled off?
Ive opened us a bank account-under false names.
What names?
George Hollows and Philip Cox. Theyre colleagues of mine at the college. For references, I gave the Principal and the College Secretary.
Isnt that dangerous?
No. There are over fifty lecturers at the college, so the connection with me is pretty thin. The bank would have written to the referees and asked whether Hollows and Cox were in fact lecturers and lived at the addresses given. They will get told yes.
Suppose the referees mention it to Hollows or Cox?
They wont see them. Its four weeks to the new term, and I happen to know that they arent social friends.
Peter smiled. You have done well. He heard the front door open, and Annes voice called hello. Up here; he shouted.
She came in and kissed him. I gather it went off all right; she said. There was a sparkle of excitement in her eyes.
Well enough, Peter replied. He looked back to Mitch. The next step is the grand tour, isnt it?
Yes. Thats down to you, I think.
Anne said: If you two dont need me, the baby does. She went out.
Why me? said Peter.
Anne and I mustnt be seen in the galleries before delivery day.
Peter nodded. Sure. Lets go over it, then.
Ive listed the top ten galleries here. You can get around them all in a day. You look first of all for what theyve got plenty of and what theyre short of. If were going to offer them a picture, we might as well be sure its one they need.
Secondly, the painter has to be easily forgeable. He must be dead, he must have a large body of work, and there can be no complete record of his work anywhere. Were not going to copy masterpieces-were going to paint our own. You find one painter like that for each gallery, make a note, then go on to the next.
Yes-we'll also have to exclude anyone who habitually used any specialized kinds of material. You know, everything would be much easier if we limited ourselves to watercolors and drawings.
We couldnt raise the kind of money we need to make a spectacular splash.
How much dyou think well raise altogether?
I shall be disappointed if its less than half a million.
An atmosphere of concentration filled the big studio. Through the open windows, the warm August breeze brought distant traffic murmurs. For a long while the three people worked in a silence broken only by the contented gurgling of the baby in a playpen in the middle of the room.
The babys name was Vibeke, and she was just a year old. Normally she would have demanded attention from the adults in the room; but today she was playing with a new toy, a plastic box. She found that sometimes the lid would go on, and sometimes it would not; and she was trying to figure out what made the difference. She too was concentrating.
Her mother sat nearby at a battered table, writing with a fountain pen in meticulous copperplate script on a sheet of Meuniers letterhead. The table was littered with opened books: glamorous coffee table art books, heavy tomes of reference, and small learned articles in paper covers. Occasionally Annes tongue would stick out of the comer of her mouth as she labored.
Mitch stood back from his canvas and gave a long sigh. He was working on a fairly large Cubist Picasso of a bullfight; one of the series of paintings which led up to the Guernica Guernica. There was a sketch on the floor beside his easel. He looked at it now, and deep frown-lines gouged his forehead. He lifted his right hand and made a series of passes at his canvas, painting a line in the air until he thought he had it right; then with a quick final stroke he put the brush to the canvas.
Anne heard the sigh, and looked up, first at Mitch and then at the canvas. A kind of stunned admiration came over her face. Mitch, its brilliant, she said.
He smiled gratefully.
Really, could anyone anyone do that? she added. do that? she added.
No, he said slowly. Its a specialized talent. Forgery for artists is a bit like mimicry for actors. Some of the greatest actors are lousy mimics. Its just a trick which some people can do.
Peter said: How are you getting on with those provenances?
Ive done the Braque and the Munch, and Im just finishing the Picasso, Anne replied. What kind of pedigree would your van Gogh have?
Peter was reworking the picture he had done in the Masterpiece Race. He had a book of color plates open beside him, and he frequently flicked over a page. The colors on his canvas were dark, and the lines heavy. The body of the gravedigger was powerful yet weary.
It would have been painted between 1880 and 1886, Peter began. In his Dutch period. Nobody would have bought it then, I dont suppose. Say it was in his possession-or better, his brother Theo's-for a few years. Then bought by some fictional collector in Brussels. Turned up by a dealer in the 1960s. You can invent the rest.
Shall I use the name of a real dealer?
Might as well-only make him an obscure one-German, say.
Mmm. The room became quiet again as the three returned to their work. After a while Mitch took down his canvas and began a new one, a Munch. He put on a pale gray wash over the whole surface, to get the brittle Norwegian light which pervaded so many of Munchs paintings. From time to time he closed his eyes and tried to rid his mind of the warm English sunshine in the studio. He tried to make himself feel cold, and succeeded so well that he shivered.
Three loud knocks at the front door shattered the silence.
Peter, Mitch and Anne looked at one another blankly. Anne got up from the desk and went to the window. She turned to the men, her face white.